


through all the days out wandering

by unheard_secret



Series: Unfinished Tales (Things I have abandoned... but still sort of like anyway) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ... yet, Gen, Young Sherlock, this isn't a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:19:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/unheard_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John limps toward Sherlock and gestures at the expensive coat, badly crusted with dirt at the elbows, and gives a meaningful glance at Sherlock's shoes. "You hardly want a cab fare to Belgravia," he says pointedly. </p><p>Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he frowns as though John has surprised him somehow. </p><p>[In which Sherlock is seventeen, John is as we know him on the show, and their friendship has a very different beginning.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	through all the days out wandering

**Author's Note:**

> So... I have had this on my computer for over a year, waiting futilely for inspiration to strike in order to finish it. So far it hasn't happened. **So as a warning I should say that this is the first part of what could be a much longer series. I can't promise any more will ever arrive.**
> 
> I'm posting it now because I think some people might enjoy it as it stands. Please review if you do like it, letting me know why... and maybe (just maybe) I'll be inspired to write some more. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> I should add that this is un-beta'd and hasn't been brit-picked. Sorry in advance for any mistakes!

John has only been home for two months and already the paralysing routine of the invalid serviceman is making him more than a little crazy. There is no other way to explain why he escapes his apartment every day, only to spend hours walking in Hyde Park, barely seeing a thing beyond the grey static that fills his head. 

His psychiatrist says it will pass, and John is both qualified and experienced enough to know that she is right. A month, two, and he will feel human again. But, for now, he takes his walks in the park, and wonders why he hasn't told anyone about the gun; badly hidden in the top draw of the desk in the small, single bedroom apartment which is all he afford on his army pension. It's almost like he wants someone to find it, and maybe he does. 

It's a cold evening, chilled and damp in a way that still feels wrong when John spends nearly every waking moment - and a fair number of his sleeping ones - possessed by memories of sand and heat and dry winds. He's dressed in a thick serviceable jacket, the only one he owns, and sturdy boots. The wind and wet seems to cut through them anyway, and he's turned the jacket's collar up against the light, unpredictable rain. 

He's almost home - only it's not home, it's just some apartment he's living in until he afford somewhere nicer - when he notices that he's being followed. 

Whoever they are they're not being very discrete about it, and John feels a vague discomfort at the realisation that he should have noticed long before now. They're loud and obvious, and following him with a lack of subtlety that is, in some ways, interesting to observe, and in others, simply embarrassing. He tries not to do anything that will let them know that he's noticed them. He just keeps walking toward his apartment as though nothing has changed.

He rounds the corner, calculating that they will followed about half a minute behind. There's more than enough time for him to disappear into an alley. 

Moments later he is standing among the rubbish that is the hallmark of alleyways everywhere, waiting. And then --

He jerks backward as the man following him stops in the mouth of the alley. He doesn't even hesitate before turning his eyes unerringly on John, as though he knew he was there from the start. 

John drops his walking stick and wonders what he will do if the man has a gun. 

There are several reasons why he might have someone following him. The list starts with Afghanistan, takes a short detour via Harry, before returning to Afghanistan. Black Ops never were as secret as they wanted to be, and an army doctor is almost perfectly placed to discover things no one wants him to know. 

His breath is coming faster, his heart pounds, he is suddenly inhabiting his own skin in a way he hasn't since he was sent home. He's ready for a fight, more than ready for the pounding rush of adrenaline that makes it's way through his body as he clenches and unclenches his fists. 

The man following him pauses, takes in his stance, his clenched fists and his walking stick - on the ground now, though his leg doesn't seem to be affected - then he hunches his shoulders in a move calculated to himself as small as possible. He makes his body scream 'Not a threat'. He says, in a soft voice, "Sorry. I'm -- sorry..."

It takes a moment for John's brain to finally make sense of what his ears are hearing. 

"What?" he asks, frowning. His left hand, which had been steady for the first time in months, gives a small tremor.

The man -- no, boy, blinks rapidly and his eyes dart about the alley as though trying to find an answer in the brickwork. John looks at him properly for the first time, and is hit by a sudden rush of disappointment as he realises he has made a mistake. 

"Why were to following me?" he asks, roughly. He sighs a little as he bends to retrieve his walking stick, all his nerves are on end and he's wired for a fight that's not going to come.

The boy swallows, he can't be more than seventeen, and he ducks his head. "You looked kind," he admits. His voice has a deep rasp and his hands are shaking in a way that makes John remember that he used to be doctor. 

"You're high," he says quietly, almost to himself. 

The boy doesn't answer, but the way his body tenses and the way his shaking hands flutter in denial, tells John everything he needs to know. He's tall, his dark hair emphasises his pallid skin, and his brows slant over blue eyes that are sharp but unfocused. The boy is close to crashing from a high . 

"What's your name?" asks John, and he tries to be kind. Some part of him is cataloguing the boy's reactions, his shivers, loud sniffs and wandering eyes. Cocain, then. He wonders if he should call someone. Social Services? The police?

"Sherlock," says the boy. Then he glances at John, making eye contact for the first time; his pupils are dilated and his eyes are blown wide, but his gaze is steady. He straightens, revealing that he is surprisingly tall when he's not trying to advertise himself as harmless. He's reached a man's height. "Social Services are less than useful, and I'll be gone before the police arrive. You're right, it's cocaine. I shouldn't have followed you, but you looked... kind and I thought you might give me enough money for a cab home."

John shakes his head in disbelief, "That's why you were following me? You want money?"

Sherlock frowns. "I can assure you that even a gram of cocaine costs considerably more than a cab fare to Belgravia," he says, enunciating the words with a pointed accuracy. "Your money wouldn't be spent on drugs."

John runs a hand through his hair. His other hand is gripping his walking stick, and the handle is slick and wet from where it fell on the ground. "How old are you?" he asks, and he doesn't know why he cares. Why should it matter to him that a young homeless boy, probably an addict, is lying? 

"That hardly signifies," said Sherlock.

John limps toward Sherlock and gestures at the expensive coat, badly crusted with dirt at the elbows, and gives a meaningful glance at Sherlock's shoes. "You hardly want a cab fare to Belgravia," he says pointedly. 

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he frowns as though John has surprised him somehow. 

"How old are you?" asks John, again. He doesn't need to ask why Sherlock is on the streets. He might be from an affluent background, but his drug habit speaks for itself. 

"Twenty."

"Right," scoffs John. "Now, how old are you really?"

Sherlock's frown deepens. "Seventeen," he says. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and looks so disgruntled at having to say so, that John actually believes him.

He looks young for his age. It doesn't help that he's too thin, and swathed in a coat that's at least two sizes too big. It probably fit him when he'd bought it, but cocain did that to you. Made you disappear, so slowly that you didn't notice until you were almost gone. 

John wonders what he's meant to do now. He's never read anything offering advice to anyone in a situation like this. 'Accosted by a young drug addict on the streets of London? Why, yes, do call the police!' 

He considers it briefly, but when it comes down to it what can the police do?

"Nothing," comments Sherlock. 

John starts, his hand tightening on his walking stick. "Did I say that out loud?" he asks, surprised. 

"No," says Sherlock, and he's not looking at John. His left hand is out of his pocket now, and he's examining it as though fascinated by the play of skin on bone. "I just knew what you were thinking."

John doesn't say anything, just chooses to let the matter drop for the moment. Sherlock's disconnected, wandering look reminds him forcibly that he's still high, and really there's no other choice, is there? 

"Come with me," he says with a deep sigh, heading out of the alley and toward his apartment. He moves before he can think too deeply about what he has chosen to do, and doesn't even pause to let Sherlock catch up. 

Sherlock falls into step beside him after a time, and a long moment passes in silence as they walk; Sherlock, flashing him confused, considering, looks as he struggles to match John's pace. 

"Were are we going?" he asks. Then he corrects himself without a moments pause. "No, I know where we're going. We're going to your home. What I meant to ask is why are we going to your home?"

John's doesn't answers. He just continues walking silently, limping a little on the uneven pavement. Then he glances at Sherlock and says "I'm John. John Watson."

Sherlock doesn't respond immediately. "John?" he mutters, blinking rapidly at the ground passing beneath his feet. Then he looks up and his gaze is as piercing as it is fleeting. "John, why?"

John doubts that he's asking, for a second time, why they're headed to John's flat; this is the harder why, the one to which even John doesn't know the answer. "I don't know," he says, eventually. _I want to help_ isn't actually the truth and _you remind me of my alcoholic sister_ isn't a reason -- especially not when the only things Sherlock and Harry have in common are a drug habit and an equally dubious addiction to expensive clothes.

Probably the best answer is no answer at all. It's a combination of _I've been a little bit mad since Afghanistan_ , and _I need company that isn't in my head_.

Sherlock frowns, but doesn't press for more. They reach John's apartment block very quickly, it's only three houses down from the alley; an ugly, squat building, in amongst a great number of very ugly buildings. This part of London is a vivid reminder of why seventies architecture was such a bad idea; the apartment block is all rendered concrete slabs, dark and dirty now after almost forty years.

Sherlock follows quietly as John lets them into the building. He's growing lethargic, tired, and he pauses a little too long on each step as they walk up the stairs towards John's apartment on the second floor. _Crashing_ , thought John, and the thought makes him tired, _I was right._

"Look," he says, glancing back at Sherlock as he opens his door, "you only have my word that I'm not a paedophile or something worse --"

He's broken off by Sherlock's soft snort. It's a small derisive noise that has John blinking at him in surprise. "You're hardly a paedophile," says Sherlock. He's tucked his hands back in his coat and he's gazing tiredly at John, but there's a small curl at the corner of his mouth that seems universal to know-it-all teenagers everywhere. "You're a soldier, invalided back to England less than four months ago. You don't have a job, but you are thinking about applying for something, possibly a position at a local medical practice. You're overqualified, but you like the idea of doing something undemanding for a while. Your psychiatrist thinks it's too soon, but you don't agree with her," he pauses a moment. "You shouldn't."

John stares in surprise. "How?" he asks. 

Sherlock sighs, and looks mildly put upon. "When I first started following you," he explained, "you were gazing longingly at a medical practice not two blocks from here. That told me you were a doctor, but that you weren't practising. It's obvious you're a soldier, and equally obvious that you were invalided out. Now, a soldier with a psychosomatic limp, just returned to England? Of course you have a psychiatrist, and they are almost certain to be the one suggesting you give everything time and take it easy for a while. It's equally obvious that you shouldn't listen to them, they're wrong."

John fumbles to pull his key from the door. "It's obvious that I am -- was -- a soldier?" he asks. 

"Yes," says Sherlock, simply. 

John lets this settle for a moment, then gives a soft laugh, "Amazing."

Sherlock looks surprised. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," says John, gesturing for him to enter the apartment and limping behind him into the small cramped hall. "That was fantastic, really."

Sherlock glances over his shoulder as John herds him into the lounge room, where it's a little less cramped. "That's not what people usually say," he says.

John's brow furrows as he gestures for Sherlock to take a seat. "What do they usually say?" he asks. 

"Fuck off," says Sherlock. And he tries so very hard not to sound to bitter that he only ends up sounding uncertain. John is suddenly reminded of how terribly young he is. Seventeen and already alone in a world that doesn't seem to have a place for him. 

Sherlock isn't looking at him. He's sitting now, his head is in his hands and he's almost asleep. "I'm going to crash," he says, hoarsely. 

John nods, and pushes himself to his feet. "Take off that coat," he says, softly. "I'll bring you a pillow, you can sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock nods, and looks far too grateful. It makes something in John's chest strangely tight. Sherlock struggles out of the coat and puts it carefully on the coffee table before pulling off his shoes and sinking back into the sofa, his eyes closing. 

His clothes really are absurdly expensive. They look like they haven't been properly cleaned in a while, weeks, but the suit appears to be bespoke, and the shoes (trainers, probably stolen from a skip) really do clash horribly. 

"Take off everything," says John, passing him a rug. "I'll find you something to sleep in. I would offer you a shower, but --"

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. "I'd probably manage to drown," he agrees.

...

Sherlock sleeps for seventeen hours, sprawled out on John's sofa, looking strangely comfortable for all the sofa is at least a foot shorter than he is and his feet don't seem to know where to go. 

He doesn't even twitch when John walks in to take his clothes for the washing machine. John puts the washing on, makes himself toast and beans for dinner, heads to his bedroom, and sits down at his computer. 

He's already been through Sherlock's pockets and turned up nothing more than a twisted piece of paper wrapping, filled with his next dose of cocain. There was no money, and no identification. John had wondered briefly if Sherlock had hidden his wallet under a lounge cushion, but dismissed the idea; it was more likely that he'd hide the cocain and it had still been in the coat.

He pulls up the internet, and thinks for a moment before typing, _missing person sherlock_. Google responds with over a million results, but none of them look right and Sherlock has been changed to Sheldon in the process. John clicks on the 'search instead for missing person sherlock button,' but he isn't surprised when the first entry is still 'Missing people with Name Sheldon'. 

He sits back, stares at the screen, and wonders just what he's going to do. 

He can hardly offer Sherlock his couch in the long term, and he doesn't doubt that Sherlock will be gone in moments if he calls the police. He slowly closes the browser, not even looking at the bookmark for his blog - the one his psychiatrist thinks he should be writing. He shuts down the computer and closes the lid. He's just about decided to sleep on the matter when his phone rings. 

It's still the generic bumbling tune that came on the phone when Harry had pressed it into his hands only the week before. John doesn't known how to change it, and doesn't care enough to find out. 

He looks at the caller ID and is surprised to see it's from a private number. Harry should be the only one who knows he has this phone, and both her numbers as already in there. 

"Hello," he says, answering hesitantly.

"Am I speaking to John Watson," asks a soft, dangerous voice in his ear. 

John frowns and sits back in his chair, he doesn't recognise the voice, but he does recognise the threat it carries. He answers slowly, "Yes."

"Good, good," says the man, and his voice is smooth. "I understand you've been contacted by Sherlock."

John feels his shoulders tense, he sits straight, and his left hand drifts towards the top draw of his desk. "Who is this?" he asks. 

"Let's just say I'm an interested party," says the man. "I'll be at your door in ten minutes, we need to talk."

The phone goes dead and John stares at it for a moment before slowly disconnecting the call. He gazes about his room, and wonders for one paranoid moment if someone has seen fit to bug his small squalid flat. It's more likely they've been following Sherlock, says a small, reasonable part of his brain. Which is not reassuring, and just begs more questions. What could anyone want with the seventeen year old cocaine addict currently passed out on John's sofa?

Moving deftly, John opens his top draw and pulls the gun out from underneath the single piece of paper he has covering it. He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, and leaves his room. 

He checks on Sherlock first. He's still asleep, and it doesn't look like he'll be moving any time soon. John contemplates waking Sherlock, demanding answers, but he has serious doubts that Sherlock will be able to give a coherent response. He sits, waits, and watches Sherlock sleep. 

Ten minutes later, exactly, there is a soft knock on his front door. John wonders why they didn't ring the bell, but understands quickly enough when Sherlock shifts in his sleep. They didn't want him awake for this, and whatever they were using to follow him it was enough to let them know that he was asleep.

John opens the apartment's door cautiously, slides out into the hallway, and pulls the door firmly shut behind him. 

The man in the hallway has an imposing air. Physically, he's unremarkable. He has a tired face, a slightly portly figure, and he looks only a little younger than John -- but that could be wrong. His hair is an unmemorable colour, and his eyes are a neutral grey. There's nothing about him that's striking or extraordinary. However, despite his unprepossessing appearance, his manner is unmistakably aristocratic.

He watches John close the apartment door with no apparent interest, and waits with an indulgent look while John turns to scan the surroundings. John gives the bodyguards at the end of the hall a wary look before turning to meet the man's enquiring gaze. 

The man raises an eyebrow, and glances significantly at John's hip. "You won't need the weapon, Dr. Watson," he advises. 

John shrugs. "I think I'll be the one to decide that," he says, his voice calm, and just a little dangerous. "Now, who are you? What do you want with Sherlock?"

"You're remarkably loyal, remarkably quickly," says the man, leaning on his umbrella. 

John doesn't say anything, just gives the man a warning frown. 

The man's only response is to laugh, but it's a soft self-deprecating sound, and it disarms John in a way that any number of reassurances would not. "I'm his brother," says the man. His mouth twists as he adds, "For my sins."

John blinks in surprise. "Ah," he says. 

"Yes," says the man, he looks down at his umbrella for a long moment before looking back up. "Sherlock will not like the fact that I have been here, and he certainly will not like it if he knows what I am going to ask next, so please do try not to tell him everything as soon as he wakes up."

John nods slowly, then changes it midway to a steady shake of his head. "I'm sorry, but you're his brother?" he asks.

The man looks surprised. "I understand there's not a great deal of family resemblance, but --"

John cuts him off. "Sherlock is seventeen, a drug addict, on the street, and you're his brother." He pauses. "I've half a mind to use my gun."

The man frowns, "Dr. Watson, I would hardly leave my brother on the street if I had any choice. I assure you that, if I had my way, my brother would be safe at home. He hasn't been cast out, or anything half so melodramatic, he's simply run away." He taps the tip of his umbrella angrily on the ground. "Again."

John slowly nods in understanding. "Sorry," he says. 

"Thank you," says the man, with a steady, gracious air. He catches John's gaze. "I need you to look out for my brother for as long as he'll let you. You'll be paid," he pauses, taking in John's reaction. "You'll be paid considerably," he finishes, and it's not a bribe. It's a plea for help.

John looks away, down the hallway, where the two bodyguards shift in warning. "I'll need to think about it," he says. Then, his gaze flicking back to Sherlock's brother, "I'll also need to know your name and how to contact you."

"Mycroft Holmes." He holds out a card, "My details."

"Thanks," says John, taking the card and holding it awkwardly in his left hand for a long moment before sliding it deep into his jeans pocket. 

Mycroft rubs at his forehead, smoothing the skin, though surely he's too young to be getting worry lines. "I don't expect this to be a long term thing." He sighs, dropping his hand, "I don't even expect Sherlock to stay a week. He never does. But if you can put a roof over his head and keep him away from the drugs for even that long I shall be very grateful."

John starts to say something, then pauses, he tries again. "Why do you -?"

"Why do I trust you?" asks Mycroft, raising an eyebrow in John's direction, his upper lip tilting just a little in the direction of a smile. 

"Well, yes," says John.

Mycroft gives a soft huff of laughter. "I know everything there is to know about you John Watson." John shifts warily, but Mycroft ignores him. "Of course I don't trust you."

John's mouth tightens as he absorbs the implications of this comment. 

"However," says Mycroft with a tight smile, "I don't think you'll do anything to hurt my brother."

"Right."

"After all," he shrugs, "You would be dead before you succeeded." 

"Ah," says John, glancing from Mycroft to his guards and back again. "Right." He takes a deep breath. "I'll see what I can do," he says, and he is suprised because it's the truth. 

He tucks Mycroft's card into his pocket and wonders what will happen next. 

"Your psychiatrist is wrong," says Mycroft. 

John glances at him. Perhaps he still had some capacity for surprise after all. It's so like the conversation he had with Sherlock that he wonders just how closely they had been observed as they talked. 

Mycroft, continues, his voice quiet. "You're not haunted by the war. You miss it," he gestures at John's leg, at his steady left hand. John notices for the first time that he didn't pick up his walking stick when he left his room, that his hand hadn't shook as he took Mycroft's card. 

"Good day, Dr. Watson," says Mycroft, tipping his hat. "And, thank you."

...

Sherlock wakes up like it's a competition to be won. There's no moment of drowsy arrival into the waking world, no sleepy blinks. He's simply aleep one moment, and awake the next. 

John watches him from where he sits, his laptop on his knees, his right hand pressing furiously at the delete key. If there is any therapy to be had in writing a blog it is here, in the wonderfully cathartic motion of deleting, at a regular and rhythmic pace, every single letter he has typed. 

"Dr. Watson," says Sherlock, and it's too polite and vaguely ridiculous, but John thinks he'll correct Sherlock later; after he's been called Dr. Watson once or twice more. 

Sherlock looks at him, blinks, looks down at himself, then looks back at John. 

"Mycroft came to see you," he says. 

John sighs, highlights everything with a quick ctrl-a and presses delete key one last, satisfying time, then he closes the laptop's lid before putting it on the ground by his feet. "Yes," he says, looking up at Sherlock with a considering tilt to his head, "He offered me money to look after you."

Sherlock doesn't respond immediately. He's reorganising his blanket, so that he can sit with it about him, thrown over his shoulders. John's flat is so cold it's like the arctic has come to visit -- the landlord promises to fix the heating at least once a week, but it never happens. 

"Take it," says Sherlock eventually, his voice muffled by the blanket. "We can split it, fifty-fifty."

John blinks. "That's not what Mycroft thought you would say."

Sherlock reappears, settling the blanket about his shoulders. "Mycroft's an idiot," he observes.

John absently rubs his left hand across his pant leg, as Sherlock sits back with a sigh, adequately swathed in his blanket. "He thought you would be angry," says John. 

Sherlock shrugs, "He's normally offering the money to whichever homeless shelter forces me to stay the night. This is different. We split it fifty-fifty, and then I'll be out of your hair."

John nods slowly. The homeless shelters probably wouldn't give Sherlock half of anything offered to them by Mycroft, though they would almost certainly take the money. He couldn't blame them really, most of them were begging for funds. "What would you do with the money?" 

Sherlock gives him a look of pure disdain. "Cab fare home. What do you think?"

John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock's face falls. John says with some bite, "I think you'll spend the money on cocaine and waste the next week wandering London while high."

Sherlock's nose wrinkles, he looks away, and John feels the room thicken with teenage angst. "The world is filled with idiots," Sherlock mutters, as though it's some form of justification.

John just sighs. 

"Getting high isn't going to solve that," he says. 

Sherlock gives a derisive snort. "I'm well aware of that, Doctor Watson," he says, pulling the blanket more tightly about his shoulders. The set of his jaw is defensive, his thin face looks fierce and all the joints in his long awkward body are locked tight. He looks as though he's prepared to fight a battle, one that he's fought before, one that he's already lost. 

John stands up, reaching for his walking stick -- deferring the battle for later. 

"Let's get you some breakfast while we talk," he offers.

Sherlock gives him a surprised look, but stands slowly, unfolding his body from the couch, pulling at his blanket so it doesn't drag on the floor. 

John leads the way to the dingy little kitchen just opposite the lounge room, where he gestures for Sherlock to take a seat. The kitchen smells faintly of mould and he's never been able to scrub away all evidence of the previous owner. The stove is irredeemably stained, and the cupboards are falling off their hinges. John likes it least of all the rooms in the apartment -- sometimes he hates it.

"Porridge?" he asks. 

Sherlock nods. He's looking about the room with some interest, and John wonders just what he's seeing. No doubt he can tell what John has had for dinner every night this past week, and several other things besides. 

"Does your brother drink, or was it your father?" asks Sherlock, as John puts the porridge on the stove. He doesn't have a microwave, the flat didn't come with one, and he can't justify spending the money. 

John almost drops the pot's lid. "Ah," he fumbles with the lid for a moment, "my sister," he says, turning to glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks strangely disappointed. "Sister," he says, to himself. "I knew I was missing something."

John takes a seat opposite him at the small, serviceable table, that crowds the tiny kitchen while he waits for the porridge to thicken. "Can I ask how you knew?" he asks. 

Sherlock shrugs, "You evidently don't drink. There was no alcohol in the lounge room, and there's none here. You don't even have drinking glasses, just mugs for tea. You're not a recovered alcoholic yourself: you don't have any of the physical symptoms, and besides, you would have brought it up earlier -- the 'I've been an addict too' is a empathic ploy used with depressing frequency. People who don't drink, don't drink for a reason, and in a man and an ex-soldier, that reason is nearly always an alcoholic in the family. Hence, father or brother."

"Why brother?" asks John, frowning. 

"This blanket's label reads Harry Watson," he says with a shrug. "Probably not your father, almost definitely your sibling. Brother."

John gives a soft laugh, he can't help the smile that curls at the corners of his mouth. "That really is brilliant" he says. Sherlock looks about uncomfortably. Eventually, deciding that John isn't mocking him, he gives a small, quiet smile in return.

Sherlock looks very young when he smiles. His face has a strange, adult quality to it, but when he smiles he looks every bit a teenager, awkward and unsure of himself, but determined not to let anyone else know. Every inch of cultivated composure flees and he looks slightly ridiculous, sitting in John's borrowed tracksuit pants, which are far too large about the waist, under a bright yellow and red woollen blanket. 

John looks at him and wonders why it matters to him, why he even cares that Sherlock's mouth is more accustomed to a frown that a smile, why it worries him that Sherlock already has lines creeping across his forehead, and down about his eyes. He met Sherlock less than a day ago, and more than two thirds of that time has been spent with him unconscious. He shouldn't care -- but he does.

"Can I ask you something?" asks John, breaking the mood. 

Sherlock shifts in his seat, pulling his dignity back about his shoulders as he tugs the rug tighter. "Yes," he says, "I suppose." 

"Why did you run away from home?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. His entire body becomes defensive, locking John out. He looks down, frowns in a manner that can only be described as mulish, and shakes his head firmly. He won't look up, and he doesn't respond when John tries an apologetic, 'Sherlock?'

Instead he burrows into his quilt and settles as deeply as he can into teenage misery.

John taps the table as he considers Sherlock's wary, stubborn expression. His quick run of fingers on the table makes a satisfying hollow thud, finally drawing Sherlock's attention. He looks at John's hand, and then at John's face, and his eyes are shuttered. John gives a small huff of exasperation. 

Then he laughs, he can't help it. "You were spoilt as a child, weren't you?" he says, mostly to himself. He gives Sherlock a steady look.

Sherlock sinks lower in his chair, and tries to look like he doesn't cares. But there's a pout about his lower lip, and he's not meeting John's eyes. 

John looks at him and thinks that in so many ways he's nothing more than a child, spoiling for the attention of any adult who will give it to him. Unfortunately he chose an ex-military doctor as his temporary substitute for parental affection. John has been known to keep men down while digging a bullet from their shoulder; a young boy with a grudge against the world, and a secret longing for attention, was never going to stand a chance.

"A spoilt child. Wanting everything your own way. Well, you won't be allowed to act that way here," John says. "While you're under my roof I expect you to act like an adult."

Sherlock doesn't shift, but he's listening.

John takes a breath. This is mad, but he's going to let Sherlock stay.

"While you're here I'll expect you to obey a few simple rules," he says.

Sherlock nods, stiffly. He looks up at John warily. "Yes?" he asks. 

John catches his gaze. "I will expect you to be neat -- clean. You can sleep on the sofa as long as you like, but I don't want to find you making a mess of the place. You will also be quiet. The walls here are thin, and I have neighbours who are very easily irritated."

Sherlock nods and his glance flicks away from John's, toward the stove, "I -- all right."

John sits back in his chair. "I will take Mycroft's money and you won't see a cent of it."

Sherlock sits up slowly, staring at John with a strange, hybrid mix of respect and disdain. 

John searches his face, but he can't tell what action engenders which emotion. Perhaps Sherlock respects anyone willing to take what they can from his brother. Perhaps he disdains them. John doesn't know. 

"And," says John, emphasising the point, "you will not bring drugs into this apartment."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a long moment. "All right," he says, opening them again.

John doesn't believe him, not even for a moment. It's one thing to agree to being clean, neat, quite -- rather another to agree with such equanimity to going off the drugs. Sherlock's face tells the entire story. He's agreeing because he believes, far to highly, in his own genius. He thinks he can either hide the evidence or (and this makes John's heart feel odd and heavy) that he won't be staying long enough for it to matter anyway.

John nods, and stands, taking one limping step toward the stove. "Just so long as we understand one another." He pours the porridge into a bowl and gives Sherlock a last solemn look. "Sugar or honey?"


End file.
